And he wanted to. Winter curse him, but he wanted to.
“They’re wrong about you. About us.” Everil wanted to sound calm. As sure as he felt. But the words were ragged at the edges. “My soul is yours. I will it so.”
Unseemly, to give in, but he did. Leaned in, his lips closing over cool sweetness and the warmth of skin, tasting as much of honey as of citrus.
“Use your tongue, Ever.” Bo’s voice was rough. And now, yes, it wasn’t only the soulbond. There was honey on Bo’s fingertips, richly sweet, enticing. “Your mouth. Taste me while I tell you my soul’s yours.”
Bo’s kelpie, eating from his hand, coaxed by gentle words and sugar. Given permission to hunger. To taste. Nothing in this that felt as it usually did, the confusion of wordless expectation as he tried so hard to be good. To be tame.
Bo didn’t need him to be tame.
Around them, the wooded walls were threaded with new growth, orchids opening in the drowsy heat, yellow and purple and white. Everil’s free hand settled on Bo’s chest, grounding himself with his heartbeat.
Wildflower honey, tasting of summer flowers in open fields. Everil shivered with tense, reined want. Carefully, he closed blunted teeth around Bo’s knuckles, gentle pressure to hold him there, where Everil could suck the sweetness from his fingers. Pleading, the noise in his throat. Eager.
“My soul’s yours,” Bo murmured. So soft. Gentle. His hand, covering Everil’s at his hip, tightened. “I fucking want it to be. Not anyone else. Just you.”
His. Everil’s. Sweetness and summer nights threading through to the heart of him, awash with lust and affection. Dark blue eyes, watching as Everil sucked and licked at his fingers. Tasting Bo, as much as the honey. Wanting to.
Moss carpeted the ground beneath them, thick roots breaking through to press at Everil’s ankles, urging him forward.
But–
Everil sent power hunting through the room, checking for subtle magics. Their presence in this space was enough to demand the Protocols of hospitality. The room wouldn’thurtthem. But its ready responsiveness to their twinned desires wasn’t harm. And they’d been promised a test.
No triggers or traps. Faerie answered solely to their shared need. Strange, as Everil had never before seen it cross the line from helpful to coaxing. But not dangerous.
Sure of Bo’s safety, he drew him closer, held him flush. Fresh heat, a bonfire burning on a riverbank, lit between them. Bo’s fingers still caught between Everil’s teeth, the hard evidence of Everil’s desire trapped between them.
Bo shuddering, rocking back against him, allowing Everil more than he deserved. Everil swallowing greedily around Bo’s fingers with parted lips and unsteady breaths.
Behave. Control yourself. Don’t be selfish.
The air thick with the scent of fresh growth and vanilla, and all Everil could taste, all he could feel, was Bo.
Bo, whose jeans gave way to faerie-weave, obscener in its gossamer softness than bare skin.
“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Bo rocked back again, and Summer help him, Everil pressed forward. “I love your fucking mouth. And your cock–Fuck, you’re gonna feel so good inside me.”
The room dimmed with his words, the glowing orchids painting Bo’s skin in sunset colors. Purple and gold.
And…
Oh.
A crown of oak leaves and small, white flowers rested in Bo’s dark hair, and Everil drew his lips back at last to stare with open lust.
“I pictured you like this at Brookhaven,” he murmured, voice low with desire. “On the porch. Summer’s Lord. An offering to the solstice. Taken and spent.” His grip remained on Bo’s hip, holding him there, so Everil might feel the sinful give of gossamer with each desperate forward press. “I want to be the one who worships you. Who ensures your pleasure, making the summer kind.”
“It’s you or no one.” Bo’s breath hitched, the sound deliciously tempting. “Yeah. Yes, fuck, Ever. My fierce fucking kelpie. My Ever. Your Bo. Don’t stop touching me.”
Too generous and too tempting, Bo leaning into him, hand caressing his hair, legs shifting apart so Everil might betterfeel him.
“My Bo.” Wonder in his words and in his touch. Fingers tracing from the circlet of oak leaves to Bo’s cheek, following the line of his jaw, then down his neck, pausing at his collar. He wanted. Was unaccustomed to being permitted to ask. “May I undress you?”
“I might go fucking insane if you don’t, though this place might beat you to it.” Bo grinned up at him, leaning into his touch. “Yeah, fuck, Ever. Undress me. I want you to touch me.” He tugged, gentle but firm, on Everil’s hair. “Doing fucking great.”
“I think Faerie and I are in accord on the subject of your attire. Namely, that you should be wearing less,” he squeezed Bo’s hip, rocked forward and remained there, pressed hard against him, “so I might better feel you.”
